Finding John Rae Page 13

  “Hmm… I quite like it, although you just said that ice is the first word that comes to your mind.”

  “Yes, and rather a lot of it.” He rubbed his eyes. “Here’s something,” he said. “What d’you think of the name Iceberg?” He looked over at me, smiling, pleased with his idea.

  Iceberg. Majestic white and aquamarine-coloured images floated before my eyes, and I thought of the strength and indestructibility associated with icebergs. “I like it very much, John. If my Arctic idea were to actually come to fruition, there could be no finer name than Iceberg for such a vessel.”

  We shook hands and retired to our respective bedrooms for the night. For the first time in a long while, I slept soundly.

  Stromness and Orphir, Orkney

  [NOVEMBER 1854]

  I awoke long before daylight and lay in bed for a while, listening to Bessie humming to herself as she lit the fires and brought various kettles to a boil in The Haven’s kitchen. For as long as I could remember, Bessie had been the cheerful anchor around which the Rae household revolved.

  I poured water into the washing bowl on the nightstand, rinsed my face, donned my winter breeches and hunting coat, and snuck into Mam’s room. She was lying on her back, still asleep, her form too small and her breathing too shallow for my liking. The nurse was dozing in a chair beside the bed. I adjusted Mam’s blanket so it covered her tiny shoulders, and then slipped quietly down the stairs to the kitchen. Bessie was stirring a steaming pot of oats over the fire, her broad hips keeping time with the rhythm of her arm movements.

  “Good morning, Bessie,” I whispered.

  Startled, she turned around, her wooden spoon dripping splotches onto the floor. “Johnny! You frightened me! For heaven’s sake, the sun hasn’t even kissed the horizon yet! Where are you going in this cold? You’ll catch your death…” I planted a kiss on her cheek, bent down and wiped up the sticky pools.

  “Don’t worry, Bess. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  “Johnny, you and I both know what happens when you go on one of your wee walks,” she scolded. “We probably won’t see you until next week, for goodness’ sake!”

  I solemnly crossed my hands over my heart. “Bess, I will make you two promises. One, I’ll be as warm as toast. Remember, our climate here in Orkney is like the tropics when compared to the Arctic! The second promise is that I’ll be home before supper. Would you please bake some biscuits and a nice fruit pie today? I’ll have my fowling piece and nets with me, so we’ll have ourselves a good feast.”

  Her face relaxed. “Just like when you were a young lad.”

  As I was collecting my shotgun and bag by the door, she appeared at my side and pressed a cloth bundle into my hand. “Take this bread and cheese, Johnny. You’ll need some victuals after you’ve walked for a while.”

  I laced my boots and stepped outside into a cold, cloying Orkney fog, settled a woollen cap onto my head, slung my bag over one shoulder and my gun over the other. I turned north and walked alongside the black waters of Hamnavoe, my stride on the Plainstones gathering speed and lengthening along the darkened route I knew by heart. When I reached the end of the bay, I turned east in the direction of Orphir parish, on the far side of Clestrain Sound. The mud did nothing to slow my pace; I drew in long, deep breaths of the damp earth and salty air, feeling better than I had in recent months.

  Once I was out of earshot of the townsfolk, I lifted my head and sang out a song I had memorized when I was a boy combing the hills of Orphir with my Newfoundland dog, Leo:

  At eve when glowed the setting sun

  Above the western wave

  A lofty barque, her full sail on

  Full, beautiful and brave.

  Robed in a gleam of golden smiles

  She steers upon the Northern isles

  She steers upon the Northern isles.

  The low-hanging sky was beginning to lighten as I approached Orphir parish, with the outline of the Hall of Clestrain slowly taking shape in the distance.

  I picked up my stride as I descended the hill past grazing cattle towards Orphir and the Hall. The building seemed to grow even larger as I approached, and there was no mistaking the familiar sounds and smells of my childhood: barking dogs, bleating sheep, shouts, the everpresent odours of manure and mud. My hearing was well adapted to identifying the most essential noises connected to safety and sustenance in the Arctic: the crunch of snow underfoot, the moans and cracks of the moving ice, the howling of wolves, the overhead approach of a skein of chattering geese, the thunder of migrating caribou herds. Whenever I returned home, though, my senses easily adjusted to the changes, perhaps because everything about Orkney was embedded in my soul.

  I had paid a brief visit to the resident Mackay family at the Hall two years earlier. I took the wide stone steps two at a time and knocked on the door. The housemaid recognized me, took my coat, and showed me into the drawing room. I removed my gloves and cap, wiped my beard, smoothed my unruly hair into place with my fingers.

  “John! How lovely to see you again!” Frances Mackay appeared in the doorway. She reached for my hand, her grip as firm and friendly as ever.

  “Good day to you, Mrs. Mackay.” I smiled back at her. “I just happened to be out for a walk in the neighbourhood…”

  “Oh, don’t we all know about your walking exploits, John! Do come and join us for breakfast. Mary is just now setting the table, and we would be ever so pleased to welcome another soul to take food with us.”

  “Perhaps my timing is a little bit presumptuous — ”

  She interrupted me. “Hush now, John! I will not take no for an answer!” Although I had never spoken the words to her, Frances seemed to understand how much I loved being in Orphir and coming to the Hall. “Your timing could not be better.” She took my arm. “Come with me.”

  She led me to the dining room, a place which had once fairly rattled with the exuberant chattering of seven Rae children and various adults. Frances winked at me as she called for Mary, the kitchen maid. “Mary, where are you, dear? You will never guess who is here. We have a special visitor! Come, we shall need another place setting for Dr. Rae!”

  A wisp of a young woman appeared at the doorway, shy and smiling. She lowered her gaze and folded into a curtsy, to which I responded with my deepest, most gentlemanly bow. “It is good to see you again, Mary,” I said. Flustered, her cheeks pink, she whispered, “Thank you, Sir,” and backed out of the room, tripping over the leg of a sideboard.

  The breakfast meal of coddled eggs, sausages, hot biscuits and tea was delicious, a far cry from the flavourless, dry pemmican we tore at with our teeth when we were on the move in the Arctic. William Mackay arrived and made general enquiries about my latest expedition, and I was relieved when he did not mention the controversy surrounding my report to the Admiralty.

  After the meal, William and I walked along the stone dyke line and down the hill to the beach at the edge of the water. The clouds hung low and the view across the sound to the isles of Graemsay and Hoy were obscured by mist, but I was profoundly pleased to be once again in Orkney’s open spaces, free from the walls of London and the unexpected turn my life had taken.

  I picked up one of thousands of tiny periwinkle shells left behind at low tide and blew into its miniature chambers, sending the high-pitched whistling sound deep into the fog. When we were children, we often amused ourselves by blowing into the shells in games of hide-and-go-seek, or made the noises from the beach, pretending to guide ships through the mist and darkness of Hoy Sound.

  Esquimaux children were taught that whistling would disturb the spirit world, causing angered spirits to descend and rip off the offending children’s heads. I assumed there was a good reason for instilling such fear in young people. The sound was sure to frighten away much-needed prey animals in the Arctic.

  William put his hands in his pockets and faced me. “John, I hope you won’t think me too forward in asking you this, but I’ll get straight to the point. Do you believe
Sir John Franklin’s men consumed the flesh of their fallen?”

  “Some of them did, William. Not all,” I corrected him. “Some of the men were eaten, but we don’t know how many. We have to be careful not to bundle the whole group together under one blanket.”

  “Aye, right you are. Some of the men.”

  “Do I believe it happened? In a word, yes. I have no reason to doubt the testimony of the Esquimaux.” We regarded each other for a moment, as friends and as fellow northerners.

  “That is good enough for me, John. I respect your opinion. I’ve heard that some of the younger lads who worked over in the Arctic like to knock back a few pints at the pub, and tell tall tales about the Esquimaux. They’re just looking for attention to impress the ladies.”

  “The native peoples of the Arctic do not deserve to be disparaged by anyone,” I replied. “Just as we are obliged to live by laws against lying and cheating, so are the Esquimaux around Hudson Bay. Their customs may be different, but they’re human beings, too.”

  William shook his head. “I cannot argue with that. I did not intend to speak ill of the natives. To be honest, I was wondering more about the men of the British Navy.”

  “Extreme deprivation over a period of time does strange things to the mind, William.”

  “Aye, such a tragedy.” He then turned to me with a half smile, as if he had just been struck by a far more pleasant thought. “John, on a more cheerful note, would you fancy taking one of the horses for the day? Rest your walking legs for a while? No doubt the man who is widely known as the ‘Arctic Fox’ can readily outrun a Galloway pony, but here’s an offer for you. I’ve a fine, strong mare that needs a good stretch.”

  “William, I should be honoured to do the job of exercising your horse.”

  The diminutive, well-muscled mare measured just over thirteen hands high at the withers, but her breed was capable of carrying heavy loads over long distances. Her name was Thunder, and she appeared to have a most agreeable temperament. Her broad chest and back were light brown, her lush mane, tail and feathered legs black. After I secured my shotgun and bag to the saddle, I warmed her up on the road leading away from the farm, and then let her have her head for a good canter up the hill.

  We wove our way around the Ring of Brodgar, and then circled the nearby Standing Stones of Stenness. I never failed to be astonished by the sheer height and numbers of those ancient and mysterious monolithic towers. The ring and the stones had supplied ample fodder to imaginative Orcadian storytellers over the centuries.

  I shot two tundra geese, a mute swan and nabbed several tufted ducks, birds which had migrated across the North Atlantic from the Arctic regions to spend the winter season breeding in the Orkneys. When the first goose was wounded and fell out of formation, I thought of my own fall from grace in the eyes of the British establishment, and I felt pity for the poor creature. I tied it to my line, mindful of the gratitude the Esquimaux expressed to the animals and birds they killed. Later, I stood at the edge of a briny loch and dropped lines into the water, eventually bringing up a trio of good-sized Atlantic salmon.

  Shortly after, I returned the horse to the Mackay’s stables, gave two salmon to the cook, and politely refused the offer of a wagon ride home, preferring instead to return to Stromness on foot.

  I stopped at The Haven for a moment and gave Bessie my catch. She reported that Mam was resting in her room; I told her that I would step out again and shortly return. There was one more thing I wished to do that day before the November darkness cast its shadow over the town and land.

  I walked further along the Plainstones in the direction of Hoy Sound, and along the shoreline path to Warbeth Cemetery, where my father was buried. Here lay the man who had taught me the meaning of selfsufficiency. He had inspired me to be curious, brave and strong, and in that moment, I keenly felt his absence.

  JOHN RAE ESQUIRE OF WYRE ISLE DIED: 2 OCT. 1834 AGE 62

  My father had been born in the Lanarkshire region of Scotland. When he was offered the position of overseeing the operation of the Hall of Clestrain and the lands surrounding it, he moved with my mother to Orkney. He had never really owned the Hall, but in my stubborn mind, it had always belonged to the Raes. Papa purchased land on Wyre Isle instead, as an asset for his personal estate. When I enquired about the wording on the gravestone, my mother had replied that it was his wish, because it was the only land he had ever owned in his life.

  The grave site was badly overgrown and untended now that Mam could no longer manage such exertions and everyone else was preoccupied with other things. It saddened me to think that our mother would soon join Papa in the cemetery. I couldn’t bear the thought of our only living parent leaving us, but seeing her trapped behind a mask of immobility was worse.

  Stromness

  [DECEMBER 1854]

  One evening after the children were settled, Marion, John and I lingered at the supper table, taking turns reading aloud from newspapers I had brought from London. The editorial section of the Times had published my responses to readers’ accusations regarding the veracity of my information.

  “It is my duty,” I had written, “as well as my desire, to give every information on this distressing subject, not only to the relatives and friends of the lost men, but also the public at large.” I was glad that the editors had published my letter. It is far wiser to openly discuss problems and misunderstandings than to turn away from uncomfortable conversations.

  Marion and John were naturally curious to hear my theory about what may have overcome the men. “Tell us more about what you know, John.”

  “I can’t verify what happened, but I will tell you of something that has bothered me. Apparently witnesses who saw the Erebus and Terror off the southern coast of Greenland in August of 1845 reported that the crews killed and salted a large number of waterfowl, which suggests to me that they had future consumption of the meat in mind. Perhaps the commander ordered the slaughter and salting as a contingency, in case the voyage took longer than anticipated and the supply of preserved and tinned victuals ran low. I have wondered if the greasy, rancid stores of birds would have been consumed only as a last resort, causing the men, who were in all likelihood experiencing symptoms of scurvy and other ailments, to suffer from serious bouts of intestinal disorders as well. In my letter to the Times,” I explained, “I hoped to assuage the public’s anger by appealing to its sense of pity.” I read aloud from the paper.

  “‘… picture a party of gallant men reduced by want and perhaps disease, to great extremity, pushing their way to the mouth of a large river, such as Back’s Great Fish, which they expected would permit them to travel southward in their boat.’”

  Marion sighed. “Those poor men…”

  “They would have had little to no strength left for such an undertaking.” I read on: “‘I wish I could have been with them… my greater experience of Arctic travelling and hunting might have been useful to those in such extremes and danger.’”

  “Do my words sound immodest? I wanted the readers to understand that I truly did regret not being there to help prevent those premature deaths.”

  John shook his head. “Your grave concern about the men’s suffering is clear in your letter. I wouldn’t worry about how readers will interpret it.”

  The Times had also published a strange missive from a Mr. W. Parker Snow, in which he declared his certainty that not all hope was lost concerning the fate of the crews of the Erebus and Terror.

  “His name is familiar. I heard that he had been to the Hudson Bay region once, as a civilian passenger aboard a search vessel.”

  Marion leaned forward, her chin resting on her hand. “Mr. Snow sounds optimistic. What did he write?” I picked up the paper and read his statement: “‘I firmly believe the crews of the Erebus and Terror to be alive, among the Esquimaux, I have a strong idea where they may be found. I have always had the same idea and the various rumours obtained through the wild tribes on the coast of Continental America, all refer t
o corroborating the view I take.’”

  I frowned. “Rumours…”

  He concluded his letter by announcing that he had formulated “‘a plan to submit to all calm thinking and humane minds. This I shall shortly lay before the public. Meanwhile, I once more urge the plea… with a hope that my voice may not altogether be in vain.’”

  I slapped the paper onto the table. “Imagine that!” I shouted. “Such nonsense. Grieving people may find themselves clinging to false hope after reading this cluttered drivel. The poor fellow cannot even write a proper sentence, for God’s sake!”

  “But he went to the Arctic, you said, to search for the ships and men…”

  “He is no one of importance, I can assure you both. His claim to fame — the attainment of which eludes him, by the way — is that he believes he possesses the gift of second sight, the ability to see things that are hidden from view or far away. I remember his name because he approached Lady Franklin three years ago, asking to join one of her search expeditions. He convinced her that he had experienced a vision of the missing ships, and that he knew precisely where they could be found. She hired him in 1851 as a civil officer aboard the Prince Albert, a ketch she had commissioned for the search, but the effort came to naught.”

  The romantic notion of second sight had become highly popular, and Marion was intrigued. “How extraordinary! Where did he believe the ships and men were positioned?”

  “He claimed he saw them somewhere west of the Boothia Peninsula.”

  “Johnny, you reported — ”

  “It is a vast region, Marion. If Mr. Snow thinks he has knowledge of the locations in question, he could only have acquired it through incomplete maps. The Prince Albert never made it past the Boothia Peninsula anyway, because sea ice forced the captain to turn her back. I presume the writer is still basing his opinions on premonitions and visions. He is grasping at straws again, probably hoping to join another search.”